Heart Skipped A Beat
by jowx97
Summary: They sort of always knew it would never work, but somehow it was nice to pretend.  Draco/Parvati


**Unnecessarily long author's note: I was reading 'The Magic Word is Sorry, Not Please' (this amazing, amazing next-gen fic by LittleLissi) and when we were shown Draco and Astoria, they were quite cold, whereas I had always figured Draco would try to be good with his son - warm, friendly; different to Lucius. The writer said she got what I meant, but that she felt the war had left scars on the Malfoys, and she didn't think they really got over it. Born out of this, I started wondering about the Draco/Astoria relationship, and whether that was ever really what Draco had wanted. And so - I'm not sure why, but this was an idea that popped into my head two days ago and wouldn't go away until I wrote it. **

**I've never written these characters/this pairing before, so I can only hope I've done them justice - they're both very interesting personalities to explore. As for the title, The XX's lovely song, 'Heart Skipped A Beat' seemed vaguely appropriate, and after listening to it I felt the need to slightly adapt my original idea and so I posted some of the lyrics - if you're very keen you can look up all the lyrics and even listen to the song (crazy, I know). It's a very good song. **

**Anyway, onto the story! I hope it's okay... I've got an idea for a second, final part swimming around in my head but I guess I'll only write it if there's some interest for it. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

_Please don't say we're done_  
_When I'm not finished_  
_I could give so much more_  
_Make you feel, like never before_

He glances up from his newspaper when she storms into the room, a gust of cold air entering with her. The usual sphinx-like, bored expression is painted on his pale face even though his heart has skipped a beat; secretly he is anything but bored by the arrival of this graceful, passionate and raging beauty.

"I got your owl", she says, shortly, as she strides over to him. Her voice isn't songlike and lovely but harsh and stilted as she glares down at him, expectantly.

Ah, yes; the owl. He's been trying not to think about it, although the task has proved to be almost impossible. It hadn't been an easy letter to send, and he's torn between a swooping happiness that she cares enough to come here and talk about it, and a distressing pain because her coming here will just make it all that much harder.

"What does it mean?" She asks eventually, wearily, when it becomes clear that he's not about to reveal everything of his own accord.

"Honestly, Patil, I'd thought it would have been quite obvious, even to you", he drawls, still resolutely pretending to read the article about Shacklebolt's views on the rising value of the galleon.

"Well, _Malfoy_", she spits out his surname like it's poisonous, no doubt emphasising it pointedly because they have long been calling each other by their first names, "Seeing as I'm such a ditz, perhaps you ought to spell it out for me. So as to avoid any confusion."

He swallows, and stares down at the picture of Minister Shacklebolt. He looks tired.

"It's over, Patil; that's all there is to it."

There is a pause, in which he decides he understands how the Minister feels – these past few years after the war have certainly been good, but at the same time it's all been a bit much.

"Why?" Her words are softly spoken in her delicate voice and yet he feels them piercing him like shards of broken glass, because 'why' is the very word that's been going around in his head ever since the recent meeting with his mother that started all this.

"I'm not interested anymore. That's it."

She scoffs in disbelief and chides him, "At least have the decency to look at me when you're lying, Draco."

And the way she says his name pulls his glacial gaze up to stare at her warm, darker-than-chocolate eyes and for a second he imagines he can see within; see how broken, hurt and confused she feels. She does not intentionally let him see this though; he can tell because her guards are up within seconds of him looking at her, and there is a fiery blaze in her eyes that shields whatever shattered emotions lay within.

"I'm not lying", he says steadily in his velvet voice, looking at her with that determinedly uninterested expression. "It's been fun, but that's all this ever was – I was never interested in anything else with you. I thought you knew."

"You were interested enough when it meant I'd sleep with you; when I gave you _everything_." Her voice is trembling as she stares down at him accusingly. He knows that their first time together was her first time ever, and hates having to pretend to her that it was all a game, because he doesn't want to hurt her. Their first time had certainly been special for him too, because it was the first time that it hadn't been meaningless. The problem is, he's too drained by the truth - he doesn't want to have to face up to what is really happening to him, and it seems easier - if more cowardly - to just let her believe this.

"But that was just for fun was it?" She continues, in a harsh tone. "When we were having sex, when we were spending time together, when I blew off my friends and my family to see _you_; it was all just a laugh to you – a way to pass the time?"

His throat is dry, and he tries to ignore the flashing images in his mind of her silky caramel skin writhing beneath his touch, those wonderful sounds she makes, the way she looks at him and the way she contrasts so perfectly with his own pale skin; how they are flawless together, how when they make love – because he knows but will not admit that was what they have been doing - they are a work of art.

He purses his lips and then nods. "It wasn't meant to be serious; you were just a good shag."

She takes a sharp breath, and clenches her fists before shaking her head with a seemingly incongruous bemused smile filling her face, "Do you think I can't tell when you're lying?"

He looks away from her again, switching his focus to smoothing a non-existent crease on his already immaculate black trousers.

"It's the truth", he says, quietly, well aware that they both know it's not.

"Draco, if you genuinely want this relationship to end, then that's fine", she states firmly, although he knows her well enough to detect a trace of uncertainty in her tone, a quiver of disappointment. "But at least give me the real reason for it, for Merlin's sake! I mean, breaking-up with me through owl post is pathetic enough as it is – at least have the decency to do it properly."

A forced sneer appears on his face, and he opens his mouth to make another snide remark but she's too quick for him, anticipating what he's about to do, "And trying to upset me with a load of bollocks insults won't work; I just…" she shuts her eyes, and takes a breath. "I want the truth."

He glares as he retorts in frustration, "What does it matter _why_ it has to end? The truth is irrelevant! We both knew it would never last anyway, Patil, we were just kidding ourselves – yes, you're a pureblood, but you're a blood traitor and I'm—"

She raises her eyebrows incredulously, "You're _actually_ bringing up my blood status like it's a credible argument? See, _now_ we're getting somewhere! I thought you'd left all these bigoted opinions behind with the war, but apparently I was mistaken."

He sighs, absently stroking the sleeve of his robe under which the blackened imprint of the dark mark remains etched onto his skin. He remembers the first time she saw it, and the way she had recoiled slightly before looking him the eyes and kissing the tattooed skin, accepting him - all of him - without question. "You knew that I was like this when you first got involved with me, so you can't hold my upbringing against me now."

She looks at him with wide eyes, challenging him as she says, "Yes, well – vice versa then, Malfoy. You knew my family were _blood-traitors_ when you first got involved with me, so that's clearly not the problem."

His right hand burrows into his nonchalantly tousled white blonde hair, grasping hold of the strands tightly as he shuts his eyes for a second, "Well, it's hardly just that - you're a Gryffindor and I'm a Slytherin-"

"You are of course aware that we're no longer _at_ school, and as such our houses no longer define who we are?" She asks, with an unflattering snort – she blushes immediately, and he cant help but think it's endearing, "Besides, apparently I'm a bimbo and you're pure evil – we know they're all just silly labels that don't really exist."

He looks up at her and she smiles ever-so-slightly now, causing his heart to do somersaults as she rests her hands on the curve of her hips. Those hips he knows so well, those hips his fingers have so often caressed and melted into, currently being accentuated beautifully by the black woollen dress she's wearing. He notes that she's also wearing the green cardigan with silver buttons he once bought for her because he loves seeing her dressed in his house colours – she'd bought him a pair of black boxers adorned with a golden lion in amused retaliation.

In the end she's right though – the houses don't mean anything anymore, aside from giving them a premise for jokes and faux-rivalry, and it's not a good enough excuse. Besides, she's certainly cunning when she needs to be, and – even though he disagrees – she always tells him how brave he is.

And that's what makes him decide to tell her the truth, because he can't hide behind his cowardice with her. While the rest of the wizarding world, the 'good guys', discarded him and his family, ignored them or treated them like they had some deadly plague, Parvati had helped him through after the war. She had said she knew about misconceptions, and turning over a new leaf, and she had known he was truly sorry for what he had done. Her comfort, her kindness, her love; all things he didn't deserve after everything he'd done, and yet she had given them unconditionally. He at least owes her the truth.

He takes a breath, and feels slightly nauseous as he says, "I'm getting married". He looks her in the eye with all his boundaries down so she understands that, at last, he isn't lying anymore.

Her almond-shaped eyes widen and look him up and down as though scanning him, perhaps wondering if she's misunderstood. The smile remains on her face for a moment and he hates that she might be thinking over his words to see if the entire thing has been an elaborate ruse; as though for one glorious moment she thinks he's proposing to her in his own eccentric, nonchalant Draco Malfoy way. And he wishes so much that he was, especially in that moment - for it is just a moment - when her face crumples, when she realises the truth and takes a very long, very deep breath.

"You...You..." She sinks down into the armchair opposite him, unable to form a coherent sentence, a hand massaging her temples; the haunted expression on her tanned features hasn't quite disappeared although she quickly composes herself. He hates and loves the control she has over herself, because he loves that she's too strong, too proud to cry; loves that she won't make it more difficult. But despite this he hates that he'll never get to see her vulnerable again; that she won't let him inside her walls at all anymore, and it makes the whole thing difficult in a different way - like when a parent is not angry, but simply disappointed.

"So who is the lucky girl?" She asks with a fixed smile, eyes on the carpet, her hands folded just-so on her lap and he decides that her wrists look very fragile. He despises yet admires the formality of it all; the way she can pretend so easily. It was something they both understood, pretence, because they had both played their parts as expected of them back at school; it was so much easier to hide behind their roles - the villain and the giggling gossip - than to actually be themselves.

"Astoria Greengrass", he eventually manages, his grey eyes never leaving her beautiful face although her own dark eyes have long been averted from his gaze.

She manages to look pleasantly surprised, "Daphne's sister?"

He nods, chewing on his lip uncertainly.

"Pretty girl", she murmurs, vaguely, before at last looking over at him with dull, emotionless eyes that don't become her, "You'll look good together."

"Parvati, I-", he begins, setting the newspaper aside and getting up.

"And obviously you'd have beautiful children, if you ever decided to have them", she continues in an overly cheery voice which is trembling slightly, staring up at him blankly as he walks over to her. "A perfect family."

His mouth opens but he can't speak, as he looks down at her in a silent plea, before eventually whispering, "I'm sorry".

Her eyebrows have creased and he perches down on the armrest of her chair in an unusually informal gesture and places a hand on her shoulder. She shudders softly and shifts away though, looking down fixedly at her hands clasped in her lap. He finds himself staring at the hand she has recoiled from, filled with the scent of her hair and an overwhelming need to hold her.

She is breathing heavily beside him, shoulders quaking slightly as she eventually croaks out, "How long have you known?"

He runs his tongue over his teeth absently; he had hoped she wouldn't ask. But there's no point lying about it now, and so he takes a breath and confesses, "A month."

Her hands clasp together tighter than before as she takes a sharp breath. "A month. You've known for a _month _and you didn't bother telling me?"

He remains silent.

"What happened?" She demands, furiously, "You thought, 'might as well shag Patil while I can, until the engagement's official'? And even when you try and break-up with me via _owl_, of all things, you don't even casually point out, 'by the way, I'm getting married'."

"How could I tell you? I didn't tell you because I didn't want it to be real - d'you think I want this? My mother; my family", he begs, quietly, desperately, "You know what they're like. I didn't have a choi-"

"There's always a choice, Draco", she remarks, coolly.

And he looks down at her again, feeling slightly stunned; he knows that she kindly refused her parents' suggestion that she marry a nice Indian wizard in favour of him, but it's not the same. No matter what she says, he's never going to be as brave as her, and while her parents are understanding, his are not. Her father's not in Azkaban, trying to live through his offspring and hopelessly keep up appearances.

Before he can speak, however, she has sighed and says, softly, "I know you have to do this. I think I always knew it would have to be like this; it was just nice to pretend."

He nods, not entirely sure what he can say because nothing seems appropriate. He puts an arm around her, for want of something to fill the awkward silence, and is pleasantly surprised but also somewhat saddened when she doesn't pull away, but sinks her head against his chest in a resigned manner.

"I am a pureblood though", she says eventually in a meek voice that's so unlike her, "Would it not count?"

He sighs, as he runs his fingers through her silken black hair and revels in her scent - perhaps for the last time. Marriage had hardly been on Draco's mind before all of this, but when it came down to it, if he'd been asked to picture his wedding then the bride behind the fluttering white veil would have been Parvati. Or perhaps she would have been in a sari, red and gold like the colours of Gryffindor - either way she would have looked beautiful, but more importantly he realises that either way he wouldn't have cared what the wedding was like, or who came - she could have been dressed in rags, with Potter as his best man and Granger as her maid of honour; as long as _she_ was the bride.

"I wish it could count", he admits, and he decides that the whole conversation has been strangely sincere - no teasing smirks, no flirtatious remarks, because that part of their relationship was over.

And she looks up at him, before gathering her knees beneath her and kneeling up to face him in his awkward position still perched on the armrest; he shifts slightly to gaze at her face on, and the proximity is dizzying.

"I wish it could too", she whispers, eyes glistening slightly as her gaze seemingly pierces right into his soul.

And try as he might, he can't resist her and - as if by magic - his pale hand has found her warm face, caressing the curve of her cheek with his thumb.

"You were always too good for me", he says in a low voice, as he leans towards her, their eyes never leaving each other. And however much he hates it, he knows it's true.

She shakes her head, and her eyes seem laced with a sad amusement as she tells him in that twinkling, light voice, "Not at all."

Their lips are now hovering barely an inch apart, and he can feel her warm breath tickling his lips as his thumb continues to gently move in circles on her soft cheek. Their eyes are still watching each other, intently.

"It would probably be very stupid of me if I tried to kiss you one last time", he murmurs, and she gasps lightly as the hand caressing her cheek moves to the back of her neck, twisting in the cashmere coils of her hair.

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not the smart twin then", and she closes the gap between them and he can feel the smile on her lips as they kiss.

They kiss for a time that seems wonderfully long and yet somehow not long enough. The kiss is a conversation, a dance, a battle, an argument; a lifetime. He wants to get everything he possibly can into that kiss while she is still his, before it's over for good and he's marrying some girl he barely knows.

He knows he doesn't deserve a relationship with someone like Parvati though. Astoria is his punishment, the prison he has long been destined for because he has always been trapped by his family's will for him and stupidly allowed himself to be pulled along. It won't matter if she is spectacularly, alluringly wonderful because, ultimately she has been forced upon him; she is not Parvati. Unfortunately, the ugly mark on his arm has - in a way - long marked him as beneath Parvati; they just pretended not to know it. Thinking this makes him kiss her harder, more passionately because it's one last taste of who he could have been.

When he at last pulls away, breathing heavily with swollen lips he realises that his cheeks are damp, and a look at Parvati makes it clear that she's been crying.

"Sorry", she sniffs with a faint smile, "I'm as bad as Chang."

He snorts derisively despite the situation, "If that in anyway likens me to Potter, you can bloody well forget about it."

She smirks mischievously, and whispers with that sing-song voice, "Well, I do often find myself wishing you had a scar-", and her forefinger dances in a zig zag down his forehead, "Just about here." She presses her lips to his forehead and it gives his grinning lips access to her long neck, which he gently grates with his teeth, caresses with his tongue and kisses one last time, causing her to moan - he loves that he can elicit that reaction from her, and the sound makes his lower abdomen squirm pleasantly.

She kneels down now, one hand on his leg as she looks up him in the eye still smirking.

He's still grinning stupidly. "I love you", he blurts, and it's the first time he's ever said it to her - she's said it to him before, but he was never really sure and didn't want to just say it for the sake of it. Ironic that it's only now it's over he realises he would have given their relationship so much more.

Her chocolate eyes have widened and she looks sad even though her lips are still laced with a smile. "I know", she says, simply, squeezing his leg lightly before lowering her legs to the floor and standing.

She makes to leave, but turns to him once more as he remains - shell-shocked - on the armrest of the chair. Normally he'd be worried about the upholstery, but things like that all seem so trivial now.

"Maybe in another lifetime, eh?" She grins, weakly.

And he bites down on his lip, and looks at the floor because how on earth can he say goodbye now, when he's only just realised she's the one he wants to wake up to every morning.

"Not maybe", he says firmly, meeting her eyes determinedly - those melted chocolate pools that contrast so nicely with his icy grey sea, "Definitely. I've been stupid enough to screw it up this time around; in another lifetime I'd never let you go."

She smiles, looking happy but also amused - he can tell she thinks it's hilarious that he - a reserved, often cold man - of all people is using such sappy clichés. She walks over to him and gives him a firm kiss on the lips that surprises and saddens him.

"Well", she says, with an air of finality that leaves him feeling empty, "I suppose I'll have to hold you to that, Draco Malfoy", and he gets a jolt because he loves the way she says his name.

She surveys him for a moment and then nods with that half-smile before walking out of the room, out of the house, shutting the door behind her.

He stares at the door for a very long time, breathless, heart hammering within and eyes threatening to cry - it is as though with that final kiss, she sucked away what little essence of him was left after the war, and now he feels hollow, listless. After those few years of sunshine she offered him, he's finally being punished like he has long-deserved.

He whispers lowly to himself, "You can count on it, Parvati Patil". His lips are still tingling, and he swallows as he sinks down into her still-warm chair.

Then Draco Malfoy summons over the newspaper with pursed lips and ice-cold emotionless eyes, and he pretends to get on with his life.

_Heart skipped a beat  
_ _And when I caught it you were out of reach  
_ _But I'm sure, I'm sure_  
_You've heard it before_


End file.
